What an Earl Wants (26 page)

Lady Sinclair returned from the card party just before midnight. She seemed not at all surprised it was the butler who opened the door for her instead of the usual footman. It had been a topsy-turvy day for the servants, indeed.

Despite her son’s protestations, she still checked on him before seeking her chambers each night. His condition was improving steadily, as Quincy had assured her it would. This late, Sinclair would certainly be asleep and never know of what he termed his mother’s coddling.

Thompson opened the door for her, then she stepped into the darkened chamber and shut the door against the light from the hall. “Benjamin?” she called softly. There was no answer.

Sinclair rolled onto his back and moaned. He pulled the covers closer to his chin and shifted his feet.

Lady Sinclair moved to cover him with the blanket bunched at the foot of the bed, but jumped back when an arm shot out from under it. Lady Sinclair covered her mouth with her hand to muffle her surprise. She watched as Quincy flung an arm out and trapped Sinclair’s roving feet. Sinclair slid farther down in the bed, as though seeking warmth, until his feet brushed up against her midriff. Quincy wrapped one arm around his feet, over the blankets, and was still.

Even in the dim light from the fire, there was no way to mistake the smile that curved Sinclair’s mouth.

Lady Sinclair tiptoed from the room, a satisfied expression upon her features.

Quincy awoke to the muted sound of voices outside in the hall. Morning sunlight leaked through the curtains. She yawned and stretched, reveling in the feel of the soft down mattress beneath her and the warm quilt covering her.

Down mattress? Something pushed against her ribs. She peered over the top of the quilt. It wasn’t a dream—Sinclair’s feet were pressed against her ribs, through the blankets. She gave them a fond pat, in danger of becoming a caress, then slid off the foot of the bed before someone came in and saw the unorthodox sleeping arrangement. Sinclair mumbled something, rolled over onto his side, and resumed his stentorian breathing.

He had slept through the entire night. That meant the crisis the previous night had indeed been the turning point in his illness, as she’d hoped. He would soon be well enough for her to leave. Her throat constricted, her eyes burned.

Jill scratched on the door and entered just as Quincy finished folding her blanket.

“Morning, Mr. Quincy,” the maid said softly, setting the breakfast tray on the table. “Have a good night?”

“What?” Quincy stared at her with wide eyes.

“I—I just wondered if the earl had a good night—if he’s getting better, that is.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, he’s much improved.” Quincy stepped over to the table and lifted the cover off the plate, inhaling deeply. So much improved, in fact, that last night was probably the last time she would ever sleep in the earl’s bed.

She suddenly remembered waking up lying atop his chest in the hut. Thinking of what they had done, the pleasure they had given each other, her toes curled. How Sinclair had made her feel when he held her in his arms, cradled and protected. Cherished.

She straightened her cravat and pushed those thoughts to the farthest reaches of her mind. Someday, years from now, she would allow herself to pull out the memory and relive it. Now it was too fresh, too painful, knowing it would never be repeated.

Alone again, Quincy ate breakfast, then worked at her desk in the sitting room, with the door closed. She penned a few notes in Sinclair’s hand, declining more invitations for the upcoming week. Tradesmen’s bills she sorted and filed. She’d worry about the last wages owed Finlay and Matilda later. She found the name and address of Sinclair’s solicitor, and copied it onto a piece of paper she tucked into her pocket.

Just before noon, she heard movement and voices in Sinclair’s bedchamber. If she was going to leave him, she should start getting used to not being near him. After waiting a suitable interval, and the outer door had opened and closed again, she knocked and entered. “Good morning, Sinclair.”

He was just settling back in bed. “Few more minutes, and it will be afternoon.” He leaned against the stacked pillows, an odd little smile on his face as he tilted his head to one side and looked at her.

His gaze was unnerving. After having been naked in each other’s arms a few days before, it wasn’t fair that he could still make her blush. “Would you prefer to have Thompson or Jack shave you after your bath?”

He stroked the stubble darkening his cheeks and chin, that odd smile still playing about his mouth. “Are you trying to tell me in your own subtle way that I stink?”

“Of course not.” She reached to push up her spectacles, then remembered she wasn’t wearing them. “Merely that I thought a bath might make you feel more yourself. And unless you intend to grow a beard, I thought you must wish to remove the whiskers.”

He sat up straighter. “I would rather shave myself, thank you. I have already requested a bath be brought up.” He coughed, then squinted at her. “You’ve bruises under your eyes. Have you been here all night again?”

“Which is why I thought I’d take the rest of today off. My cat hardly recognizes me anymore.” Sir Ambrose was the only warm male she’d be cuddling up with in the future. Might as well get started.

Sinclair’s smile fell. He looked crestfallen, but she must be mistaken. Now that he wasn’t delirious with fever, it shouldn’t matter much to him whether she was present or not.

“Give my compliments to your grandmother and sister.”

Before she could reply, Jack knocked and entered, carrying the hip bath. Jill and Carrie were right behind with buckets of steaming water.

Quincy gathered up her belongings from the adjoining suite. While she was packing the portmanteau, she heard Sinclair request Jack bring the top two folios from the stack on his desk downstairs. She covered her face with her hands. If he was asking for his folios again, he was truly on the road to recovery. Soon he wouldn’t need her at all. She sniffed and finished packing.

Feeling the need for fresh air, she declined Elliott’s offer for a ride home in the carriage and started walking.

Sinclair was a strong man. Within a fortnight, he would be back on his feet. Back to his exercise regimen, back to the social rounds.

Back to selecting a wife.

Quincy sighed and kicked a stone. Lady Sinclair was already preparing a gown for her son’s wedding, so he must have made his selection. She decided the most likely candidate would be the shy redhead, Miss Prescott. Lucky girl. The next time Sinclair fell ill, his wife would attend him in the sickroom, not Quincy.

She should feel relief that it would be someone else’s duty to spend the night in the uncomfortable chair beside his bed, deal with his surliness, demand that he drink willowbark tea.

His wife would be the one to mop his brow, help him change into a fresh nightshirt, curl up on the bed beside him. His wife would be the one to tease and banter with him, sleep in his arms, run her fingers though the tight curls on his muscular chest and abdomen, stroke him until he groaned in ecstasy. His wife would be the one to kiss him, touch him, taste him.

No!
A wave of possessiveness slammed through Quincy.
She
wanted to be the one to do those things. Even when he was crotchety and coughing, she wanted to be near him. He was the man who rescued orphans and hired down-on-their-luck ex-soldiers, who saw the humorous side to a household in chaos, who put other people’s needs above his own.

Having realized that her affection for Sinclair went far beyond fondness or friendship, there was only one thing to do. She took off her hat and banged her head against the nearest lamppost.

Also realizing she was drawing attention from passersby, she put her hat back on and resumed walking.

It was utterly selfish of her to feel this way, because Melinda’s needs were far more pressing than her own. Quincy needed to concentrate on her goal of buying a cottage and getting Mel out of the city, not mooning over an unattainable earl.

But, oh, how she wished…She stopped and stared at a lamppost in stupefaction. How she wished Sinclair had selected herself as his wife.

How could she have been so foolish as to fall in love with Sinclair?

S
inclair select her for his wife? Impossible. Would never, could never happen.

Even if, miracle of miracles, he returned her feelings, even if he lowered himself to consider the daughter of a mere baron, how could he overlook how unsuitable she’d made herself to be anyone’s wife? She sighed again and started to cross the street.

“Watch where yer goin’, you son of a—”

Quincy jumped back, just avoiding the wheels of a passing hackney, and landed on her rump in the mud.

“Here now, Quincy!” a familiar voice bellowed. Quincy looked up and saw Sam the butcher in his cart, close behind the hackney. Sam handed his reins to the young woman seated beside him and climbed down. He reached out one beefy paw and yanked Quincy to her feet. “Not injured, are you, lad?”

“Just my dignity,” she replied, retrieving her hand. She brushed at the mud, but gave up on the futile task and picked up her portmanteau.

Sam clapped her on the shoulder, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Angie,” he said to the woman in the cart, “this here’s the smart lad I been telling you about. Mr. Quincy, this is Angie, apple of her Papa’s eye.” Angie blushed and nodded.

Quincy bowed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss…”

“Missus,” Sam filled in. “Mrs. Mayhew. Going to give us a grandbabe by midsummer’s eve.” Sam’s barrel chest, already of formidable size, expanded another inch or two.

Angie blushed again.

“My felicitations, Mrs. Mayhew. I will have to get used to thinking of you as a grandfather, Sam,” Quincy said.

Sam beamed. “Tell you what, Quincy, why don’t you join us for supper tonight? Make it a big celebration, what with Angie just coming home again. And bring your sister, Melinda. My oldest boy Patrick wouldn’t mind seeing her again, if’n you know what I mean.” He chuckled and nudged Quincy in the ribs, almost sending her into the street.

“Thank you for the kind offer, but I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“Nothing of the sort. Come tonight and Angie will tell you all about the riots at the tin mine up at Birmingham. You can’t even read about them in the papers yet!” Sam leaned close and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “That’s why I made Angie come home, don’t you know. No telling what them miners might do, and we wouldn’t want them involving the foreman’s family, eh?”

Riots at a mine? And not in the newspapers yet? “I’d be delighted to come, Sam, Mrs. Mayhew.” She crossed her fingers behind her back. “But I’m afraid Melinda has a previous engagement.”

Sam’s smile faded, but only slightly. “We’ll see you at six, then.” He shook Quincy’s hand again, climbed back into the cart, and slapped the reins.

Quincy hurried the rest of the way home, her mind racing even faster than her feet. Once before she had heard rumors of upcoming changes at a mine that she had invested in. When the dust cleared a month later, she had quadrupled her investment’s value. If only she’d had a hundred pounds invested then, instead of ten! The profit from that transaction had paid their expenses for several months. If only Papa had listened…

But she had no energy to spare for such useless ruminations. As she entered her lodgings, she wanted to eat, then sleep, then get up and go to Sam’s and eat again. And hang on every syllable Angie uttered.

“Mr. Quincy! You’ve come just in time,” Lady Fitzwater called from down the hall.

Quincy set her bag inside their quarters and forced a smile. “Good afternoon, Lady Fitzwater. In time for what?”

“Luncheon, of course! Come, your sister and grandmother are already in the dining room with my other guests. We don’t want to keep them waiting.” Lady Fitzwater tucked her arm through Quincy’s and half dragged her into the dining room. “Everyone, look who showed up in the nick of time,” she announced.

Eight pairs of eyes turned toward Quincy. She swallowed hard, then pulled out the chair and seated Lady Fitzwater before taking the only vacant seat, next to Melinda, across from Lord Palmer. She nodded greetings to Lady Fitzwater’s other renters, Miss Stanbury, Reverend Gladstone, and Lieutenant Wheeler.

“Lord Sinclair must be running you ragged,” Palmer said.

“He’s been a bit under the weather,” Lady Fitzwater said before Quincy could reply. “But Lady Sinclair assured me this morning that he is doing much better. Isn’t he, Mr. Quincy?”

“Yes, my lady, he is much improved.” Quincy gratefully sat back as the footman placed dishes and silverware before her, then filled her plate.

“Sinclair never had much use for doctors,” Sir Leland said. “Has he sent one packing yet?”

“I would wager he has his secretary tending to his needs, not some fusty old doctor,” Lord Palmer interrupted. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Quincy?”

Quincy dropped her fork. Palmer couldn’t possibly mean what she thought he meant. Could he? Her palms felt damp, but she wouldn’t give Palmer the satisfaction of seeing her dry them. If even his friends were speculating on Sinclair’s relationship with his secretary, it was past time for her to leave.

“Our Jo is quite experienced when it comes to dealing with illness,” Grandmère jumped in.

“I don’t know what we would have done last winter without Jo,” Melinda added. “Grandmère and I were both quiteill.”

“Now, now,” Lady Fitzwater came to Quincy’s rescue. “You’re making the boy blush. Eat up, everyone!”

Quincy managed to get through lunch without choking. Unable to decipher the looks exchanged between Leland and Palmer, she did her best to ignore them, as well as the long looks they each gave her. Again and again she reached to push up her spectacles, only to remember they weren’t there.

At last the meal was over and she escaped to her room. She tried to dismiss Palmer’s innuendo as merely a figment of her guilty conscience. She tossed and turned so much, Sir Ambrose jumped down from her pillow and stalked away, his tail twitching in annoyance. Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep, interrupted when Melinda shook her shoulder.

Supper at Sam’s was all she hoped for. Angie described upcoming changes at the mine that involved laying off some workers, hiring others, and incorporating new equipment. The owners had hushed up things so well, London papers hadn’t heard of the unrest yet.

Quincy barely kept from rubbing her hands together in glee. This was exactly what she needed. And this time, thanks to Sinclair’s extravagant raise, she had more than fifty pounds to invest. There was always a risk inherent to any investment, but the payoff—money for their cottage and getting Mel out of London—was worth it.

She thanked her hosts by reading the younger children a story, and included Angie in the reading and penmanship lesson.

Early the next morning, she took a hackney into the City, to the office of Sinclair’s solicitor. Reginald Chadburn, Esquire, did not keep her waiting long enough for her to experience more than a niggling doubt about the wisdom of what she was about to do. She barely had time to remove her hat and gloves before the clerk ushered her into his office.

A short, stout man in his fifties, Chadburn urged her to be seated. “How can I be of service to you today, Mr. Quincy?”

Quincy pushed her spare spectacles up on her nose and plunged in. “Lord Sinclair is not feeling well, and has charged me with a few tasks. I will need your help to carry them out.” She quickly outlined her strategy for moving the earl’s investments.

“Certainly. I’ll draw up the necessary papers and personally bring them over this very afternoon.”

“Bring them over?”

“For Lord Sinclair’s signature, of course.”

“Of course.” She cleared her throat. “Just ask for me when you arrive, and I’ll be happy to take the papers in to him. I’m afraid he’s still contagious.”

Chadburn’s eyebrows shot up into his wig. “Contagious?”

“Nothing serious, I assure you, but we don’t wish to take any chances.”

“No, we do not. Better to err on the side of caution, I always say.” Chadburn consulted his pocket watch, and they agreed to meet at the earl’s town house at three that afternoon.

When she arrived a short while later, Sinclair was awake, wearing his emerald satin dressing gown, sitting up in the chair drawn close to the window. Morning sunshine bathed his features, making his chestnut hair gleam, putting color back in his cheeks. He scratched at a hint of whisker stubble on his chin as he flipped through one of his ever-present folios.

She wanted to gather him in her arms. Wanted to feel his arms around her, wanted him to whisper words of love in her ear. Wanted to burrow under the bedclothes with him, their naked bodies entwined.

She hoped his future wife, whomever she was, would appreciate moments such as this. Private, quiet moments, nothing and no one in the world but the two of them.

There was no use pining for what could never be, for her. She cleared her throat, all business again.

“Good to see you sitting up again, my lord,” she said, handing him the morning newspaper. He seemed alert. Now would be a good time to tell him about her plans for his investments, and confess that she’d discovered the full extent of Johnson’s thievery.

“Good to be sitting up.” Sinclair opened the newspaper, scanned the front-page headlines, then handed it back and dropped his folio on the table. “World hasn’t come to an end yet. It will all wait another day.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his hands folded in his lap.

Quincy pressed her lips together. News regarding his investments could wait, too. She made to rise, but stole a moment to gaze at him again. Just looking on him made her heart feel warm, her pulse speed up. His vulnerability made her wish for all sorts of impractical, impossible things. Things that she gave up the right to on the day she became Mr. Quincy.

Years from now, she would pull out the bittersweet memory of this time, and cherish it all over again.

She forced her attention to the paper. No mention of the doings at the mine yet. Tomorrow, most likely, the story would break. Then, with Mr. Chadburn’s help, she would have to move fast.

Sinclair opened his eyes and caught her staring at him. She pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “Care for some tea, my lord?”

He nodded, his expression slightly troubled as he returned her regard.

She poured the tea. As he took the cup, his fingers brushed hers. Sinclair seemed in no hurry to break the contact. She looked up, both of them holding the cup, to meet his steady brown gaze upon her.

“I realize the past few days have been less than ideal,” he began.

She was in no hurry to break the contact, either, and gave him an encouraging nod.

He shifted the cup to his left hand, holding her hand in his right. “The coming days will be much better, I promise. Until then, I just, ah, that is…Thank you.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You’re welcome.” When she would have pulled away, he tugged her closer, leaning forward, until he raised her hand and kissed the back of her fingers, his lips warm and smooth upon her skin.

Her heart stopped. They had done far more intimate things with each other just a few days ago, but this was different. This was a courtly gesture, common among the aristocracy, one he’d doubtless performed hundreds if not thousands of times.

But no one had ever done it to her. And while she was Mr. Quincy, no one else ever would.

While she struggled to bring air into her lungs and her thoughts tripped over themselves, unable to form a reply, he gave her a smile, stood, and went back to bed.

His brief cough made her stand. She handed him the glass of honey-lemonade. “I’ll be in the next room if you need anything.” He nodded, and she walked to her desk, still dazed.

Several times throughout the day she heard him move from his bed to the chair, and back again after a brief interval. She should tell him about the moves she was planning for his investment portfolio. Instead she kept thinking about his hand holding hers, his lips on her skin. And not just on her hand.

As the clock struck three, Thompson opened the sitting room door to tell her there was a visitor for her. Blast. Mr. Chadburn. And she had forgotten to tell Sinclair.

She greeted the solicitor in the drawing room where Harper had seated him, and went back upstairs with the papers before even thinking to offer him refreshment.

Sinclair was asleep when she knocked and entered his bedchamber. Judging by the volume of his snores, he would not awaken anytime soon. He needed the rest; she wouldn’t wake him up. She chewed her bottom lip in thought, then shrugged. Nothing could be done about it.

She signed Sinclair’s name to the papers and took them back to Mr. Chadburn, her conscience clear. After all, she was not cheating the earl. Everything she did was in his best interest, just as she had promised when he hired her. How fortunate that what was in his best interest benefited her as well.

As he took the papers from her, Mr. Chadburn handed her a new folio. “Here’s the monthly report on the Three Soldiers Inn. Has his lordship made a decision on the prospectus I sent over last week?”

“Prospectus?”

“For the inns in Lancashire, and one in Manchester. If he still plans to buy one or more of them, we need to complete the transaction soon.”

“Ah, no, I don’t believe he’s made his decision yet.”

Chadburn stood, putting on his hat. “Let me know the moment he does, will you? Rumor is there’s another buyer sniffing around, and the price may go up.”

“Yes. I’ll do that.”

The moment she was alone, Quincy tore open the folio. Income, expenditures, planned improvements, everything one needed to know about the operation of the Three Soldiers Inn. The same inn she and Sinclair had stopped at on their way to Brentwood. As she had suspected, Sinclair was the anonymous benefactor, the one with more pounds than sense.

She hugged the folio to her chest. She wanted to throw her arms around him. She settled for a deep sigh of contentment, and went back upstairs to work.

The earl also happened to be asleep during the next three visits from Mr. Chadburn. It could only be a coincidence that Quincy scheduled those appointments for just after luncheon, when Sinclair was most likely to nap.